


Piano Man

by LolaBee53



Category: Death in Paradise
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-21
Updated: 2020-07-24
Packaged: 2021-03-04 21:15:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25423009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LolaBee53/pseuds/LolaBee53
Summary: When Richard purchases a piano, Camille begs for lessons.
Relationships: Camille Bordey/Richard Poole
Comments: 11
Kudos: 14





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello!  
> It's Lola - you may know me from the other site. This is my first time using this site, so if there are any mistakes/things I could do differently then please tell me :)  
> Any feedback is much appreciated!  
> Characters are not mine....

Camille made her excuses, slung her bag over her shoulder and exited La Kaz, pointedly ignoring the disbelieving looks she was receiving from both her colleagues and the raised eyebrow from her Catherine.

She couldn't blame them really: they all knew her well enough to be unconvinced that she was simply in need of an early night.

They probably all knew her well enough to be able to accurately perceive her true motives behind leaving her mother's bar after only halfl a beer.

Richard had declined the offer of drinks that evening, claiming that he was busy with a new book.

However, his detective sergeant had not been taken in by this excuse (which had, of course, been accompanied by an awkward laugh and an apparently infernal itch on the back of his neck).

Furthermore, Honore's police force had just solved an extremely complex case, which had involved a case of mistaken identity as well as 2 homicides and a minor robbery.

The drinks were well deserved - if Richard hadn't declined.

Camille knew she was being nosey when she enlighten the defender upon arrival at her boss' shack, but she was interested in his doings, for reasons she wasn't quite prepared to admit to herself just yet.

She decided to blatantly ignore the tiny pang of guilty nervousness she felt at turning up uninvited, and to instead approach the situation with her classic happy-go-lucky attitude.

She strolled cautiously around the side of the bungalow to stand on the verandah.

Much to her surprise, all the verandah doors were wide open - unusually uncharacteristic for Richard, considering he hated all things beach.

The open doors also resulted in Camille being able to hear all the noise coming from inside the shack - and there was a lot

She heard a breathless curse and peculiar rustling noises, similar to those you hear when you receive a parcel in the mail.

As if to confirm her suspicions, Richard burst past the bed and rammed into the desk.

The first thing she noticed - an item quite hard to miss - was the box. It was tall and rectangular and almost bigger than Richard himself.

The second thing she noticed (something she didn't dismiss as quickly as the box) was his bare chest.

He appeared to only be wearing a pair of shorts, clothing she had no idea he even owned.

She hated to admit it, but he was mesmerising; pale skin lesser with dark hairs scattered across it.

She stared at his chest for a long time, embedding it into her memory for future reference.

"Shit."

The softly muttered curse awoke her from her daydream.

Richard had turned the box lengthways, and was examining it, from one end to the other, brows furrowed in a frown.

Camille smiled fondly.

He was so clumsy, so pedantic, so childish and ever so English, but also so kind and delicate.

A soft squeak interrupted her thoughts.

And then a crash.

She looked up.

Richard had dropped the box and was staring at her with an expression of what looked like horror and embarrassment on his face.

"Hi Sir."

She couldn't keep the smirk from her voice.


	2. Chapter 2

Richard liked to maintain his status as detective inspector even when he was off most notable way he did this was his distinctive daily attire: the grey M&S suit and smart (yet cheap) briefcase appeared to be permanently attached to Richard.

Camille and Dwayne - Fidel was far too admiring of the Chief to actively join in - liked to joke that their boss' suit was superglued to his knew that really this wasn't the case, they'd all seen the rather amusing sight of Richard in his striped pyjamas, but Camille couldn't help wondering occasionally if the latter were stuck to his skin underneath his suit.

His colleagues were not the only ones who thought his clothing both entertaining and conspicuous. In fact, the image almost every Saint-Marie citizen pictured when Richard's name was mentioned in conversation - a surprisingly frequent occurrence all things considered - was a grey suit.

Camille's suspicions that Richard's personal perpetual dress code was mainly for comfort and security were entirely correct, although Richard also felt highly inclined to dress suitably for his job.

The thought of turning up for a day of solving murders in a garish floral shirt and a pair of cargo shorts like his predecessor had done often enough simply made him shudder.

It was so... So... Inappropriate, not to mention uncomfortable.

Obviously, Richard didn't have to wear his suits in his free time. He just... did.

He wore them at La Kaz, at the market, at the ridiculously tiny bakery in Honore Town centre, and, at the post office.

He'd walked the two mile hike to the post office today in the sweltering heat and in his grey suit.

It had taken him forever.

When he finally reached the post office, his package weighed just over 20lbs.

And then there had been the walk back.

Admittedly, his first thought when he noticed her presence in the verandah was the curse he'd uttered moments ago.

He knew he wasn't in his best state.

Richard wasn't even entirely sure that he had a 'best state'.

He had been so hot upon return from the post office that he'd taken off his shirt and changed into a pair of shorts his mother had sent him for Christmas.

He'd never worn the shorts before, but he couldn't deny the fact that they were incredibly comfortable and much cooler than his suit trousers.

He had been rather enjoying the feeling of barely any clothes on. He'd actually forgotten that he looked entirely different from how he usually did.

Then he saw her. The woman he spent half his free time trying to forget about. On his verandah. He knew that it was a day-to-day thing, her coming to collect him from his home, but each morning he savoured the feeling of sheer luck he felt at having such beauty visit him.

She looked radiant - if a little tired after a long day at work - even in the simple satin vest and sinfully short shorts she was wearing.

Richard couldn't help ogling her: he knew quite well that he did ogle from time to time, but he would never admit that to Camille.

He was just contemplating how to dispose of the huge box that was undoubtedly making him look both peculiar and suspicious (and consequently making him feel self conscious and awkward) when suddenly an awful realisation dawned.

Camille looked lovely, but how did he look...

She was wearing-

Clothes... Clothes...

Of course!

Oh no.

Shorts meant that-

Self consciousness hit and Richard let out a pained squeak, dropping the box to the floor.

"Hi Sir," Camille said, and even he could detect the humour in her tone.

"I- Er... C-Ca-Camille. Well, I- Err... Hello,"

Richard managed a little laugh as he hastily grabbed a pillow and hugged it tightly against his chest.

Camille strolled into the shack as though it were perfectly natural.

"What's in the box?" she asked casually, running a finger over the cardboard packaging.

"Well I- errm, you see.." Richard paused as he did up the last few buttons on the white work shirt he had miraculously thrown on in about 10 seconds.

Camille raised her eyebrows when she noticed the addition to his outfit.

"It is actually a.. Er... Its.."

Camille folded her arms expectantly .

"Well... You see.."

Camille rolled her eyes.

"It's a keyboard," he blurted out.

"It is?" Camille asked eagerly.

"I- Yes. Yes it is. Why? Do you play?" this last statement was said with uncharacteristic enthusiasm.

"Well.." Camille paused, clearly thinking of the best way to phrase her next sentence.

"I used to." she said decisively.

Richard was skeptical, but too delighted to read into her slightly hesitant demeanour.

"You did?" he inquired instead.

"I did." Camille said firmly. "Although I must admit, I am a little out of practise." She blushed, and looked down.

Richard laughed nervously.

"Me too," he replied honestly.

"Maybe you could play me something...?" Camille suggested, quite pleased to have found an interest of Richard's that she didn't find totally boring.

"I'm not amazing," Richard said modestly, "But I could... Play something, if you'll help me set this godforsaken contraption up."

Camille grinned.

"It's a deal."

A good hour of swearing in both French and English later, and the "contraption" had been assembled. Well, it was standing.

Richard let out a sigh of relief and wiped his head with his hanky.

He could feel the sweat pooling on the back of his neck and under his arms, and he was sorely tempted to take off his shirt again.

Camille groaned and stretched out her limbs like a cat.

Richard glanced at her and quickly looked away - she was displaying elements of her elegant figure that didn't do to think about.

He was startled out of his pointed attempts to ignore her when she sunk onto his bed.

"What are you doing?" he asked, eyes widened, cheeks reddened.

"I'm sitting down," Camille said innocently.

"Yes well I- erm... Shall I?" he gestured to the wobbly keyboard.

"Do!" she smiled encouragingly, heaving her legs up onto the bed and sitting cross legged like a schoolgirl.

Richard raised his eyebrows and gave her his famous lopsided smile, walking slowly over to the piano.

Camille shifted on the bed and leaned back on her arms.

Richard sat down on the little stool before lifting his hands and beginning to play.

It was 8pm when Richard finally stopped playing.

Camille opened her eyes and looked at the clock in the shack.

She gasped - Richard had been playing for an hour.

They'd both lost track of time.

They'd both been lost on the lilting waves of Mendelssohn; the soft waltzes so characteristic of Chopin; the dark and expressive chords of Rachmaninoff.

It had been beautiful: a beautiful experience that they had shared together, and somehow it had brought them closer.

Richard lifted his gaze from the keyboard to look at Camille, who was already gazing at him in silent admiration.

"C'etait magnifique," she breathed.

"English please. My house, my rules," Richard said breathlessly, eyes shining with a light that only passion could ignite.

Camille stood up and advanced towards him.

"That, was beautiful," she whispered, her dark eyes beaming with honesty.

His green eyes seemed deeper than ever a moment they just stood like that, each looking into the other's eyes. Richard broke the tense atmosphere, with disappointment that only the most observant observer would notice.

"Can you play?"

"Not nearly as well as that."

"Camille, I've been playing embarrassingly badly or an entire hour. I'm sure you can play something for 5 minutes."

"Well..." Camille blushed bright red.

She went over to the piano and played middle C, turning to face Richard for support.

He nodded eagerly.

Camille began to play.

Some 2 minutes later, Camille stood up and bowed dramatically.

"That was quite possibly the most soulful rendition of Chopsticks I've ever heard, Camille," Richard said, eyes twinkling with amusement like.

"Why thank you," Camille grinned cheerfully.

"I think you need some lessons."

It was supposed to be a joke, so when her entire face lit up, Richard felt a little guilty.

Well it wasn't as if he could actually give her lessons.

"Oh come on Richard, it'll be fun!" Camille shaped her face into an expression not unlike that of a puppy.

Richard sighed and rubbed his face with his hands.

"How do the English say it? Pretty please...?"

"Your mother owes me a hell of a lot of tea"


	3. Chapter 3

And so it was settled. Camille's lessons were to commence on Friday - tomorrow.

They were to take place every Friday and Tuesday at Richard's shack after work. Thanks to her boss' precise and meticulous nature, Camille could see no flaws in their plan. He was so pedantic, she was quite, quite sure that he had planned every minute of at least a year of lessons. There was no escape if she decided that the piano simply wasn't for her. Richard wouldn't let her give up like she had given up on violin and piano lessons as a child.

She had never really been into music - well, playing it at least. She was perfectly content to sit down and listen to bands like Sully's all day long. Of course, that wasn't to say she wasn't excited about learning. Any opportunity to spend time with her boss was special: he was special.

Plus, personal piano lessons had infinite potential for teasing and fun. No, she was excited. She felt like a teenage girl again: young and carefree and hopeful and happy, and slightly hormonal...

To be entirely honest, she couldn't wait.

Richard however, was feeling rather different emotions to those Camille was experiencing. His stomach was churning in a most disconcerting manner and he was sweating even more than usual, despite the fact that Saint-Marie had lower temperatures than usual. He kept rehearsing different, fantastical scenarios in his head. He was anxious - disturbingly anxious. He had no reason to feel anxious. He saw her every day at work! Why would this be any different to the scientific explanations he provided her with on a daily basis? It wasn't as if this were a- a- a date.

He groaned aloud.

He'd just have to see what fate would bring, and fate was absolutely, entirely and wholelt unscientific. Richard Poole hated relying on fate.

At work the next day, Camille could tell her boss was nervous. Although her natural instincts allowed her to read people startlingly accurately, it would have been obvious even to an outsider that Richard was nervous. It was in his every move: the rigid posture he formed when bent over his desk, the averted gaze when discussing their latest case with Camille, the slight shaking of his hand as he wrote up case files.

Camille, by complete contrast, was a blur of energy and happiness. She danced around the station on feet as nimble as those of a fairy's, approached their case with unusual vivacity and even hummed a calypso under her breath when reviewing documents.

Dwayne and Fidel were entirely confused by their 2 seniors' attitudes, and discussed the situation when patrolling the market.

"What's up with the chief then, eh?" Dwayne said, hands on his belt protectively as him and the younger officer strolled through the market.

"I don't know. And Camille, she's so... bright and cheerful!" Fidel exclaimed, a frown on his face.

"Hey, do you think they..." Dwayne waggled his eyebrows suggestively. Fidel sighed at the older officer's implication, because he knew it was wrong. All the same, he couldn't keep a smirk from his lips.

"Dwayne, you know we can't talk about the Chief and Camille like this. It's just plain wrong," he quipped, responsibly and firmly.

"Well we can't deny that we both want it to happen huh? Especially if it keeps them from tearing each other's throats out eh," Dwayne said matter-of-factly, "Besides, if it'll make Camille happy, it's gotta be a good thing."

Fidel had to agree. They both wanted the DS to be happy - that's what she deserved.

At the station...

"So..." Camille had decided to talk to Richard, because she wanted this evening to be an opportunity for them to grow closer.

Richard looked up.

"Are you looking forward to this evening?" Camille sauntered over to his desk, leaning against the surface and looking over her shoulder at him.

"I- errrm... Well-"

Camille smiled encouragingly.

"I... Well... In truth I'm- a little nervous.." colour rushed to his pale face and he looked down, embarrassed.

"Well I don't bite-" Camille said teasingly, and he smiled his lopsided smile.

"-only when I have to," she added with a wink.

Dwayne and Fidel marched into the station, returned from their patrol.

"No problems down there Chief," Dwayne said proudly. Fidel nodded and glanced at Camille, who was still settled against Richard's desk.

"Oh-" she quickly moved back to her own establishment opposite her boss'.

The team sat down and finished the day's work. Richard was noticeably less jumpy than previously, which caused Dwayne to wink mischievously at Fidel and throw him a post-it that said 'I bet they took advantage of us not being there ;)'. Fidel smirked and swiftly scrunched the note up.

At long last, it was time to lock up - Dwayne's turn.

"Camille, Chief? Drinks at La Kaz?" Fidel grinned.

"Well erm.. Actually Fidel, I er- I'm a little busy this evening. Tomorrow, perhaps?" Richard clasped his hands behind his back and retrieved his briefcase before heading towards the station door, stopped only by Camille's voice:

"Oh Sir, I forgot to ask. Is there a dress code?"

At this, Dwayne openly snickered and Fidel smiled too.

Richard blushed an impressive shade of crimson, and, with a barely perceptible shake of his head, practically sprinted out of the station.

"Camille? Drinks?"

"Sorry Fidel, got something to do. Catch you later, ey?" Camille slung her bag over her shoulder and exited the station.

"Well... What's the betting they're up to something?" Fidel said to Dwayne.

"I'll owe you drinks for the rest of the year if we ever find out," Dwayne muttered.

"Hey man, I'm not betting for that. The chief'll never tell us anything!"

"Buy me drinks tonight and the bet's off."

Dwayne chuckled at his own joke.

Fidel rolled his eyes affectionately.

Then, they headed off for drinks with Catherine.

Camille knocked on the wall of the shack: the verandah doors were open and she could already see Richard inside the building. She hadn't changed out of the clothes she'd worn for work, merely touched up her mascara and told Catherine she'd be out.

Richard was wearing his suit, but she had already resolutely decided to demand he take off his jacket when he taught her.

At her 'knock', he looked up from his desk and stood up, blushing like he did whne she found him in his pyjamas.

"Bonsoir," she said, dipping her head before letting herself in.

"Camille, you know the rules," he said mock-sternly.

"Good evening," Camille plonked herself down onto the chair he'd just enlightened.

"Would you like a beer?" Richard asked politely.

"Oui, merci," she spoke in French just to annoy him, but at this point, he didn't mind. He was just glad to have her there, glad she hadn't stood him up. He passed her a beer got one himself and then sat down next to her on the second chair he'd set up.

"Shall we get started?"


	4. Chapter 4

He had planned to begin by finding out what she already knew, before cementing the basics (if necessary) and teaching her a simple C major scale. It had all been so transparent in his head; how he was going to spend every single minute of the lesson. Yet - as was often the situation when in compromising positions with either Bordey - Richard found himself at a loss for words. He attempted a question, a question so clear in his mind, but a question that somehow came out as a mush of incoherent murmers from his mouth. He tried again, to no avail.

Why are you so nervous? He admonished himself sternly. You've done far worse than this before!

And he had, but this was different.

Exams were easy for Richard, effortless even, because the only thing he had always been entirely confident in was his brain.

His brain, which allowed him to solve exceptionally complicated murders; to absorb vast amounts of information and commit them to memory; to compute answers to equations as fast as a calculator.

So why, oh why did it not provide him with social skills?

His mind was in a turmoil. Should he admit his anxiety and ask her to go home? She'd accept it, like she accepted all his other numerous quirks and oddities, but he'd feel awful, and he did want to spend more time with her. Should he open a bottle of wine and get them both drunk? That was a surefire way to ease his fear and loosen the atmosphere. No. Far too shallow - she'd see through it instantly. He could call for backup? Dwayne or Fidel perhaps? But they hadn't told anyone of their lesson plans, and he really really liked the idea of being intimate enough with Camille to share a secret with her.

Maybe you should just start the bloody lesson? suggested a dry voice - worryingly similar to Catherine's - in the back of his head. He glanced at the figure next to him, who was taking a sip of beer.

Throughout the whole 5 minutes he'd been fighting with himself, Camille had just sat there. No questions, she had just understood, because she understood him and - Oh God - that was exactly what he loved about her.

He could be his awkward bumbling self and she would just understand.

Had he used loved in his thoughts? Maybe the piano lesson would provide a welcome distraction...

"Right then," Richard said briskly, "Can you name any of the notes?"

"I know this is C, that's A, and that is E," Camille pointed to the notes as she said them.

"Yes! Well done," Richard was rather surprised that she had remembered those 3 though - there seemed to be no distinctive pattern to the notes she'd named.

"Why do you remember only those three?" he asked curiously.

Camille looked down sheepishly.

"They um... Well... As a child I just thought of them as spelling out the start of my name - C, A, M, you see," she averted her gaze and blushed a little.

Richard was still puzzled.

"But an E?" he prodded.

"I... Err... An E sideways is sort of an M?"

He smiled his lopsided smile.

"I'm afraid the other notes can't spell the rest of your name, but that note next to C is a B, for Bordey."

Camille giggled a little, partly because he was being ridiculous just for her, and partly because she was happy to be there.

Richard smiled a little, and proceeded to teach her the rest of the notes on the keyboard.

When they were done, a thought occurred to him.

"If you didn't even know half the notes on a standard keyboard, how could you play Chopsticks?"

Camille shrugged.

"Muscle memory, I guess," she replied, picking up her beer bottle and taking another drink.

"Are there any particular pieces you want to learn-" Richard began

"Anything French," Camille said maliciously, a glint in her eye.

"-that aren't French in any way shape or form?" he finished sarcastically.

"I thought most great composers were French," she said easily.

"Camille I must object. That simply isn't true. Mozart, for instance..."

"Yes well what about Chopin, Debussy, Ravel-" she quipped cheekily.

"Chopin was NOT French Camille! Honestly, that's such a childish error-"

"And how about Saint-Saens and Bizet. Bizet wrote the most famous opera of all time," Camille declared proudly.

"I beg to differ. Everyone knows that The Magic Flute is the 'most famous opera of all time' and that was by Mozart," Richard said, rolling his eyes, but teasingly.

The French lady next to him huffed and turned away in mock indignation, before turning back around and stating saucily:

"I notice you haven't mentioned any English composers yet."

Richard turned a little red.

"Elgar was English," he said haughtily.

Camille snorted.

"Teach me something by this 'Elgar' then," she said.

"No, I think we'll start by teaching you something simpler."


	5. Chapter 5

"I'm trying, Richard." Camille was frustrated.

Her boss' meticulous and pedantic side played a rather large part in his teaching, though to be fair, almost all their lessons had been going extremely smoothly up until now - but maybe that was a sign that a quarrel had been brewing for a while.

Richard was a firm believer in the "if you're going to do something, do it properly" mantra, and felt it necessary to correct Camille on even the tiniest thing.

This lesson wasn't going well.

First it was her hand position, then her fingering, then her bodily posture, then her eyesight ("Can you not read, Camille?!) and quite frankly Camille wasn't having it.

She had barely slept after yet another lengthy and convoluted argument with her mother, initiated by Catherine: "Will you ever grow up Camille? You need to settle down and have children, you are getting older mon coeur!" which had provoked an explosive reaction from the woman in question.

And then there had been the day at work...

Honore's police force hadn't worked as cohesively and seamlessly today as they usually did, in fact they had done quite the opposite.

They had spent the day case-less and consequently, albeit unintentionally, driving each other mad with statements such as "The bloody fridge is broken again and the milk has gone off! My tea will taste like your mother's chick-" This particular statement had been cut short by a murderous glare from Camille.

And even after the strained day at work, the two detectives were still having their lesson.

"OK, so is it like this then?" she asked, although she could feel the last remnants of her patience rapidly disappearing. He seemed to have lost all his already.

"No! How many times? You have to curve the fingers." he demonstrated rather violently with Camille's delicate hand.

Richard was more hot and more bothered and more frustrated than he'd been in about 2 weeks.

Had it been a different occasion, he would have thought more carefully before touching Camille so freely, but it was today and his tea had indeed tasted like Catherine's chicken soup.

And everyone knew that Richard couldn't function without proper tea.

"Ouch! That hurts!" Camille glared at him and snatched her hand back.

"I'm sorry," he said, frustration still blindingly obvious in his tone of voice.

"Yeah, well think." Camille plonked her hand back onto the keys and played the chord for what felt like the hundredth time.

Judging by his reaction (which was to claw at his hair) she had got it wrong again.

"Camille, you need to hit these notes, see? G, B and D." He was trying to be calm and helpful, but Camille obviously misinterpreted his attempt, and thought he was being patronising.

"You are impossible! Impossible!" She stood up and stalked onto the verandah.

"I'm impossible?" he remarked drily from by the keyboard, which only deepened her annoyance. She turned around to face him instead of the beach.

"Yes you are impossible. Tu es aussi irritant, ennuyeux, frustrant et- je pourrais continuer indéfiniment." she switched her rapid French back to English. "I couldn't please you if I tried."

"So you haven't been trying? My efforts have been for nothing?" he stormed out of his chair and followed her, completely forgetting the fact that he had no shoes on and would therefore be vulnerable to sand in his fury.

"Of course I've been trying! Do you think I've not been TRYING?"

He seriously thought she hadn't been trying? Turning up to the lessons was trying, because he was so bloody pedantic! He was lucky to have her! Lucky she was so much more patient than he was!

"You literally just said you couldn't please me if you tried, surely that implies that you haven't been trying!" He was confused now. Women were confusing. Especially this one.

"Where did you get 'I do not try' from in that? Mon Dieu Richard, I didn't think you were stupid as well." How could he be this annoying? How could she ever have thought that- thought that she was... In...

"You are so annoying." She was, too.

"No, it is you who are the annoying one," she hissed through clenched teeth, French accent thickening with anger.

"Well what have I ever done that's annoying? Really Cami-"

"Please tell me you didn't just ask that question." she jabbed a finger in his chest.

"It's a completely legitimate question! I never say things that actually have the opposite meaning..." he trailed off.

The fiesty French woman had thrown her shoes off and was exitting the verandah on to the beach.

"Camille? Camille...?"

She turned around aggressively.

"What?"

"Well where are you going? We haven't finished the conversation-" Richard groaned. Camille was now sprinting towards the waves.

"If you want to 'finish the conversation' then you'll just have to come in here, won't you?" she said triumphantly. She'd won, and she knew it.

Richard groaned again.

She looked so pretty and young, hair streaming out behind her in the wind, the echo of a smile dancing across her lips.

How could he have fallen for someone like her?

"See? I've won. You'll never come in here, not in a million years." she turned to face the sea and began dancing in the waves, splashing her shorts and vest in the process.

Was it seeing her so happy? Was it the triumphant expression when she knew she'd won? Whichever influenced his next decision, he didn't know. What he did know was that he pulled his socks off and rolled his trousers up and ran after her, into the water...


End file.
